farmer's markets, rooftop acrobatics and a tart

My roommate Jon and I are slowly recovering from this weekend's protracted culinary binge . We began Saturday morning, on a three-hour-long quest for groceries. We walked from our apartment, shiny with sweat after only a few steps in the sun, down to the farmer’s market in Grand Army Plaza—a vibrant weekend community of farmers, Brooklynites, red and yellow tomatoes, magenta beets, light fuzzed peaches and a phalanx of baby strollers. We spent a good deal of time poking around the piles of fat eggplants, mounds of green beans and stalks of scallions as we discussed cooking ideas and menu options. We loaded up bags with New Jersey tomatoes—their bulbous knobs ready to explode with summer-ripe red juice—a green pepper, thick-peeled red onions and cucumbers. The farmer manning the counter at this particular stand—lean and tan, white hair offsetting a youthful smile—threw in a free serrano pepper, grinning as we awkwardly hefted the eight pounds of tomatoes off his table. Soon we added bags of peaches, blueberries and plums, carrots and beans, fingerling potatoes, tiny tomatillos and a few loaves of fresh sourdough bread. When we finally left the market I felt as though I were carrying hundreds of pounds of produce, the bags literally hanging off of every balanceable body part. And when we arrived home, fingers permanently creased from the weight of grasping the heavy bags, we sat on the couch and stared at mounds of beets and broccoli, varying shades of carrots and onions, yellow plums, baskets of blueberries and sprigs of cilantro, slightly in awe of our lack of farmers market self control. Piled together and against the backdrop of our red brick (nonworking) fireplace, the vibrant colors and earthy vegetal shapes of our purchases were beautiful.

“If only we had some 17th-century Dutch artist living here,” Jon said, “Just imagine the still life paintings we would inspire.”

We were serenaded by Tom Wait’s familiar growl as we spent the afternoon blanching and peeling our bucket of tomatoes, chopping a few cucumbers, red onion and green pepper. Together with a hefty dose of garlic, olive oil, cilantro, white wine, lime juice and that (free) serrano pepper, I used the immersion blender in the largest soup pot we own to turn that tumult of vegetables into a smooth soup. Salt, pepper, and later garnished with avocado, onion and cilantro—it was an easy, cooling gazpacho with just a touch of crunch and spice. Friends slowly streamed in at the latter end of our prep work, sipping wine and experiencing the wonders of goat gouda and roasted tomatillos on bread.

Three fans collectively aimed into our kitchen made the summer heat somewhat bearable while we roasted our bi-colored carrots (yellow and orange), later tossed with the light crisp of chopped scallion. Steamed green beans, coated with a sweet balsamic vinaigrette, were cooked way ahead of time to be served cold with a pair of metal tongs. Jon had been inspired by a pilgrimage to a local Middle Easter grocery store to marinate our filets of blue fish with tangy green olives, preserved lemons, cumin, coriander and olive oil. Roasted, the soft fish was infused with deep flavor.

Last week, when Jon and I decided to throw this dinner party, I unearthed my ice cream maker from the back corner of my closet, somewhere behind the pasta roller and yogurt machine, under a pile of sweaters, sadly unused throughout this sweaty summer. And Saturday morning I went straight to work, heating cream, milk, vanilla and a bit of sugar in a heavy saucepan to a quiet simmer. In another bowl I whisked ten egg yolks—I love the slick feeling of the whites sliding through my fingers as I separate the yolks in the palm of my hand—with more sugar, until frothy and pale. After tempering the yolks with a bit of the hot cream mixture, I put it all together on the stove, stirring constantly as the custard thickened. Later that evening, the sound of the ice cream maker’s mechanical churn melded with the soft tunes of Leonard Cohen. The finished ice cream was a thick and off-white, smooth and rich, cold and creamy. It went perfectly with my peach-blueberry freeform galette (an old, favorite recipe which I’ve made and tweaked so many time I’m not even sure from where it began), the dough of which I rolled out with the help of an old wine bottle. When I pulled the tart out of the oven, fruit bubbling its thick syrup amid a deep brown crust, it smelled sweet and warm, faintly of cinnamon.

In an amazing feat of acrobatics—inspired by an apartment so thick with heat you had to practically swim through the air and, perhaps, a glass of wine or two—we brought our feast up to the roof. We handed shopping bags of bowls and plates, forks and knives, one heaping dish at a time to waiting hands, a chain of hungry people balanced on the precarious ladder, hefting food and people in awkward lunges through the hatch-like rooftop opening. Once up there, though, we perched on a picnic blanket, plates resting on our laps, and the sound of laughter reverberated out over our quiet, humid neighborhood streets. A clear outline of the Manhattan skyline gleamed in the distance—its light a deceptively still backdrop to an active evening of cooking, eating and a general raucously delicious time.

Freeform Peach-Blueberry Galette

Dough:
1 ¼ c flour
¼ c yellow cornmeal
½ tsp salt
3 tbs sugar
10 tbs unsalted butter, chilled and sliced
4-5 tbs ice water
1 large egg yolk, whisked with a dollop of water.

Filling:
8 small peaches
One container of blueberries
3 tbs. sugar
1 tbs. flour
Pinch of cinnamon
1 tsp lemon zest

Mix the flour, cornmeal, salt, sugar and butter together—I use my fingers to work the butter in with all of the dry ingredients. And then add the water, one tablespoon at a time, until the dough comes together. Wrap in plastic wrap and chill for at least an hour.

For the filling, slice the peaches and mix with the blueberries, sugar, flour, cinnamon and lemon zest in a bowl.

Preheat the oven to 400. And when ready, roll out the dough into a large circle. Place it on a piece of wax paper, on a cookie sheet, and then put the filling in the middle of the dough-circle. Carefully fold the overhanging sides of dough up over the edges of the fruit. Lightly brush the visible dough with the egg yolk and water mixture and sprinkle a bit of additional sugar on top. Bake (making sure to place tin foil or another pan underneath to catch the liquid overflow) for 30 minutes, until golden brown and bubbling.

A Tribute To Gaudi

A warm breeze tousled my loosely knotted hair and grated against my legs as we walked down the cobble-stoned street. There was no one else outside and, for a generally bustling city, it was oddly quiet. Dark buildings rose up around us as we strolled away from the downtown. We wound up a steep avenue, underneath a long train of white bed sheets that hung off clotheslines, drying in the wind. There were three of us: Dave, Adam and me. We moved together, large backpacks slung over our shoulders—silent in a horizontal line. Our shadows blazed out behind us in the midday sun.

It was Christmas Day; Barcelona, Spain.

That morning in the hostel the three of us had exchanged holiday gifts while perched at a rough wooden picnic table in the lobby. Books and journals were passed around, wrapped haphazardly in recycled newspaper; I was fresh from my semester studying art in Florence and giggled as I gave Adam and Dave each a pair of boxer shorts with a select digital image of Michelangelo’s David imprinted on them. Adam had just finished his semester in Bologna, Italy – and Dave in Sweden. Before we returned to our home college in the States we wanted a bit more adventure. Spain, France, Germany… Barcelona was our first stop and we were shocked by its warmth and color, somehow expecting Christmas to come with cold gray.

We left the hostel that quiet holiday morning, still groggy from a late night filled with paella and a midnight Christmas mass, and walked a long and meandering path to Park Guell. The park sprawls out on top of a hill overlooking Barcelona and was one of the few things open that day. It was designed by Antoni Gaudi, a Catalan architect famous for his fantastical, color-strewn buildings. We sat on a terraced landing—one that was wrapped with an undulating line of benches, covered in vibrant mosaic. There was the light smell of smoke; it wafted towards me from the gray, wrinkled man smoking a cigarette nearby. Children were shrieking in pleasure as they chased pigeons, running around in nonsensical circles. The air was warm. I could see the peaks and whorls of the Sagrada Familia, a wildly designed cathedral by Gaudi towering over in the distance of Barcelona.

Looking around, I felt as though I had landed in another world. The colorful buildings in the park—complete with gyrating design and often pinnacled roofs—may have jumped straight from my imagination. The quiet, winding wilderness paths throughout the park were a displaced proof of reality. Suddenly—with the warmth of this strange Christmas day, sitting on an oddly winding bench in Spain—I felt overwhelmingly aware of the physical world around me. The sun had never hit each hair on my arm so carefully. A puff of smoke had never carried with is such layers of scent. The mosaic on the bench around me screamed in vivid blue, pink, yellow, white. The sound of Dave unzipping his backpack was momentarily set in bold typeface. I felt my heart vibrating in my chest.

I had a few moments like that—flashes of shocking focus—while I traveled around Europe. The bright light of fireworks under the Eiffel Tower on New Years in Paris—a whiff of strong lilac perfume while I stood in front of Picasso’s Guernica in Madrid—a sweet mouthful of tart tatin in a small Parisian bistro—shivering through a snowstorm somewhere near Berlin. But never as wholly as in Park Guell. The vibrant awareness of what was around me was as its most acute in Barcelona.

I like to think that it was inspired by the world we sat in that Christmas Day: Gaudi's.

And how fitting, then, that the inspiration for my most recent moment of vivid corporeal awareness can also be connected to the Spanish architect. It was two weeks ago; I was far away from Europe and the sight of any architectural innovation. I sat in a stiffly linened and leathered dining room, midtown Manhattan. Clinking glasses and muted laughter, dark suits and shiny hair surrounded Becca and I, snug at a corner table. It was a moment of beautiful excess in our epic week of eating; we were dressed to the nines and eating a four course lunch at Le Bernardin.

Things have settled down in my life recently (after moving to NYC, finding a job etc.). There is a newly reinstated sense of control. And with that, the other senses seem to be rapidly reasserting themselves as well—comfort, confidence, not to mention scent. With my best friend and fellow food aficionado, Becca, across the table from me I was, for the first time, able to leave my loss behind and focus fully on what taste I do have.

For my first course I had a “Progressive Tasting of Marinated Fluke: Four Different Ceviches; from Simple to Complex Combination.” The idea is to begin with the ceviche cup on the left (the simplest) and work your way to the right (the most complex). Each preparation had the same basic ingredients and as you moved along in complexity there were simply more flavors added. One at a time, I took a bite of each, slowly chewing, concentration on my limited scent and power of temperature and texture to find flavor. Becca followed suit. The fluke, a white flatfish, was cool and soft.

After the first: “Citrus, right? Salt and pepper?” I asked, wondering how much I could actually discern using texture, body and muted scent to taste. I could taste the tang and detect the fruity scent when I breathed out.

She nodded. “Yes, definitely. Lime, I think,” she said, “It’s light, though. Mainly I just taste the fluke.”

The Second: “Olive oil,” I said, a bit more definitive in my assertion. I could feel the silkiness of the oil coating the fish, soft in my mouth

“I agree—it’s thicker, more flavor in the olive oil that calms the citrus.”

The Third: “I can taste more salt—and a bit of a bite, which makes me think there is something vinegary… something Asian inspired…” I said.

“Soy sauce, I think,” Becca said, taking another mouthful, “or something similar.”

“And then there’s that crunch,” I said, “The green—scallions?”

“Jalapeno…” Which would make sense of the lingering spice in the back of my throat. “And shallots perhaps.”

The Fourth: “In this one I don’t even need to put a bite in my mouth to know the basic addition – the white milkiness is either cream or… coconut milk,” I contemplated.

“Tastes like coconut milk,” Becca said. “Curry too.”

“I can’t taste the curry, but the color gives that away to me.” The visual aesthetic of the food, I realize more and more, plays a huge roll in what my I can detect in taste. The orange-red on the plate gives direction to my olfactory neurons; it gives my brain a hint in discerning and making sense of weak scent. I took another bite. “I can, actually, taste a bit of curry flavor lurking around when I breathe out slowly. It’s weak, but vaguely sweet with a spicy bite.”

The texture of the coconut milk was strikingly similar to that of olive oil, the hint of thick viscosity. That feeling in the mouth, coupled with the light nutty flavors, implies inherant deliciousness. There is something undeniably palatable about the texture of a fat.

I tasted Becca’s first course, a Warm Sea Urchin Custard; Shiso Julienne, and was struck by its light milky texture. A smattering of foam on top was a salty foil to the rich cream. When I exhaled, slowly, I could taste the urchin; it was a briny sea-filled breath.

For the second course Becca had the “Skate-Pork” – a Surf and Turf of Crispy Pork Belly and Skate Wing, Gingered Squash Mousseline and Brown Butter Flavored Jus. I don’t remember my reaction to that dish as much because this was the point where Gaudi entered the equation and my taste buds were overwhelmed.

My own main course was the Monkfish, “A Tribute to Gaudi,” – Pan Roasted Monkfish; Confit Peppers and Fiery “Patatas Bravas,” Chorizo-Albarino Emulsion. It was a beautiful dish—carefully arranged with a few well placed barrages of color—slightly asymmetrical and just fantastical enough to implicate the Spanish architect in its conception. I took a moment to digest with my eyes, before attempting on my tongue.

What struck me the most in this dish was the texture of the monkfish—light and heavy simultaneously—smoothly flaking while dissolving softly in my mouth. The salt of the chorizo-albarino emulsion—a pale brown river running beneath the fish, complimented the sweet crunch of the pepper confit—a Gaudian swath of color pinnacled on the mountain of fish. The potatoes, three bronzed wedges angled on the side, were drizzled in white and red concentric lines of sauce—spicy and cool. It was a well balanced amalgamation of tastes, a flavor-tribute to Spain (I read somewhere that the Chef, Eric Ripert, spent part of his childhood in Barcelona). The nod to Gaudi in this dish would not have meant so much had I not already held a good deal of memory-infused value for his influence. And yet again while eating, I was acutely aware of all around me, all that went into me. I felt like I was tasting, both intuitively and intellectually, for the first time since the accident. Each taste was more vibrant and tangible than I had remembered possible. I think that had part to do with Becca’s comfortable presence and understanding, the high caliber and interest of the food itself, of course. But who knows, perhaps Gaudi’s presence infused within the meal gave me a subconscious but palpably heightened awareness of flavor.

For dessert I had the “Strawberry”: Strawberry, Mango, and Basil ‘Ice Cream Sandwich’ and Organic Strawberry Juice—sweet and cold between the fresh crunch of strawberry meringue. Becca’s “Chocolate-Cashew”: Dark Chocolate, Cashew and Caramel Tart, Red Wine Reduction, Banana, and Malted Rum Milk Chocolate Ice Cream was thick and understated in its sweetness. The only thing we did not like the entire afternoon was Becca’s ice cream; we aren’t malted rum sorts of people, really.

The waiter then brought us a white napkin filled with piping hot mini cookies; I could smell their sweetness. They tasted warm.

And then, surprised, small white vaulted cups were place before us. In each was an egg shell, open on top. “From the kitchen,” the waiter said with a smile. Inside the egg was a delicately balanced milk chocolate pot de crème, caramel foam, maple syrup with a smattering of Malden sea salt sprinkled on top.


“I saw Michael Laiskonis, the pastry chef here, on Iron Chef America,” Becca said excitedly. “For the coconut and chocolate battle he made this! Well, with coconut, but still, everyone loved it! Especially Jeffrey Steingarten, one of the judges that night. I remember so clearly, because he made me laugh when he said the only thing he would change about this dessert would be to put it in an ostrich rather than a chicken egg….”

It was a wonderful combination of salty and sweet (of which I am already an unabashed fan). I would certainly have eaten an ostrich egg full.

We left Le Bernardin a bit giddy from the rich food and unaccustomed glass of afternoon wine and went for a walk in the park. A warm breeze tousled my loose hair and I could (almost) smell the scent of summer hanging in the air.

Pickle People

This afternoon my apartment-mate Jon and I left the haze of a quiet Sunday at home to go on a very important journey. We emerged from the subway in the wilds of lower Manhattan and walked a few blocks over to Essex Street, constantly speckled with rain despite a bright sun peaking out from behind the clouds. We made a beeline for the pair of weathered, wooden barrels we could see perched outside on the sidewalk. They were in front of a bright green awning, emblazoned with yellow block-letters: The Pickle Guys.

We were on a quest for pickles. And we were in the right place.

Walking into the small open store room I was immediately hit with the briny, savory scent.

Can you smell that? Jon asked, laughing a little at my dumbstruck face.

My God can I ever. I was surprised with the intensity of the vinegar and garlic registering with my olfactory neurons. I could practically taste the odor, just standing one step in the store.

The Pickle Guys have one room, filled with uniform orange barrels and laden with pickled things. Pickled everything. The pickles themselves (new, sour, hot) were a range of greens – from vibrant spring to muddy earth. The pickled tomatoes floated nearby in their vinegary baths – small oval boats of red and green. Barrels of olives (green, greek, kalamata, stuffed with garlic or jalapeno), peppers (jalapeno, pepperoncini, cherry and sweet), soft white mushrooms and transparent pickled celery, vats of sour kraut and horseradish filled the room.


Jon and I have similar taste buds. We share a passion for mustard, ginger, pickles. Between the two of us (and I'm talking solely in the last seven days) there have been four batches of beets roasted in our kitchen’s oven. And this was a week in which the thermometer never seemed to dip below 90. How lucky that we understand each other’s culinary insanity. And can bond over trips to the pickle mecca of New York City.

The jovial pickle man lording over the barrels at The Pickle Guys gave each Jon and me a sample sour pickle to eat as we waited for him to load up our half gallon bucket with an assortment of pickle varieties. It was crunchy with a perfect sour bite.



After a quick stop at a nearby kitchen supply store we made our way back to Brooklyn – Jon carrying the load of pickles and (smaller) container of sour kraut, me with a newly purchased muffin pan (which I desperately needed, of course).

This evening pickles were consumed. Beets, too. Perhaps a freshly baked muffin thrown in on the side. And we now have an official The Pickle Guys business flier hanging on our fridge. Looking it over we saw announced, in bold type, that the store is under the Rabbinical Supervision of Rabbi Shmuel Fishelis and now Jon is perhaps contemplating a career change. Because if one result of rabbinical school is the responsibility of overseeing pickle production, how great would that be?

The Pickle Guys
49 Essex Street
New York, NY 10002
(212) 656-9739
[they ship across the country]

[and, on a side note, in this post of around 500 words, I used "pickle" 19 times; pretty impressive.]

The Return of Many Things...

I've been a monstrously infrequent blog writer as of late.

I’ve been sidetracked – by my move to New York, the start of a new job and, most recently, a week-long visit from Becca, all the way from Virginia. I’ve also been sidetracked (to a larger extent than I think even I knew) by my odorless state - that unassuming and constant olfactory nothingness has weighed on my mind. I've kept my love of food throughout my recovery, but have been obviously distracted in my pursuit of the culinary, so easy to shy away from without the full physical ability to taste. I've also realized that a result of stressful transitions in my life (going to college, moving to New York) is a temporarily odd reconfiguration of my appetite. My first week at Brown, for example, I had a strange and all-consuming affinity for white rice and mustard. (Weird, I know.) My first week here in the city consisted of plain burnt toast. And stress coupled with lack of smell has definitely caused me to shy away from the culinary (writing and eating) without even fully realizing it.

Luckily those days are over.

Scents have been constantly, noticeably creeping back into my olfactory consciousness. (Last night while concocting one of my favorite quinoa salads I could hardly concentrate on a story my roommate was telling; I was too enveloped in the smell of cilantro to listen, so strong and pungent to me that I could barely believe it has been almost a year since I last experienced its cool aroma.) (In fact even as I sit here now, at the computer in the tepid 90 degree summer smog of my third-floor apartment, I smell cilantro. Just thinking about last night’s smell-return brings the scent vividly back to my nose.) These vividly regained scents have rejuvenated my love of and involvement in culinary.

A month or so ago, also, I spent an intense week grappling with the direction I want to go professionally. Culinary or writing? I was offered a position as a server at Thomas Keller’s Per Se after spending an evening observing the kitchen and dining room. I can’t write much about that experience (confidentiality agreements…alas), but the temptation of spending my time in a kitchen of such jaw-dropping culinary genius and a restaurant of such beautifully choreographed eating was extremely hard to pass by. I could have, obviously, learned a lot about food there. Just in that one night I learned a great deal. But as I watched Chef Benno at work, graceful and precise, awash with the delicate color of dishes plated so artistically in front of me, I realized that as a permanent fixture at Per Se I would feel a constant sense of loss. It is an all-consuming, intense environment and I would be continually aware of the unattainable. I could see the food, but I could not wholly understand it. Not now, anyway. Instead of carting around a thick cloud of ‘what could be’ I decided to take a step back and move in a different professional direction. One involving writing, of course. More specifically - in the realm of magazine publication. For now.

And what I've found since is that the decision not to follow the official culinary route seems to have given me some kind of mental permission to enjoy food all over again. A rejuvenated sense of culinary enthusiasm. I guess it makes sense, but it has certainly surprised me. And came in perfect timing for Becca’s week-long visit. Becca shares my passion for food in a way no one else I know does and her visit was an intense, beautiful eating-fest. One that my stomach and I are still recovering from.

Before I had even decided to move here, Becca and I had already concocted a gutsy list of things and places we would eat together in the city. (We also have an ongoing list of over 100 different kinds of muffins we will create for our future joint muffin shop. Peppermint muffin? Lemon champagne? Brioche muffin with a foie gras mousse center? The mystifying golden vodka muffin? This preemptive New York eating list is not that strange in the history of our culinary tabulations.)

We did a pretty good job of hitting up the big names on our list – way too well to fully write up for one already prolific post. Just thinking of all the eating to mention is giving me a food-coma relapse. There was an evening exploring soup-dumplings in Chinatown, pizza at Otto and wine in Bryant Park, tapas (and a table next to David Lieberman) at Tia Pol, thai food, peanut butter cookies and coffee dates, biscotti and monkey cake at Amy’s Bread. We even ran into Rachael Ray and Thomas Keller at the Bouchon Bakery in Columbus Circle. The crowning moment, on which a post is soon to come, was lunch at Le Bernardin.

And on one morning while we sat at my kitchen table watching the Today Show (delightfully free of work til 2) I asked, “So what shall we do today?”

Becca looked at me, eyebrows askance.

“What I mean to say,” I quickly reworded, “is what do you want to eat today?”

She smiled and nodded emphatically: “Cupcakes.”

We operate on the same page.

After a morning of poking around the west village and participating in the (continuing) trend of averting my eyes as my bank account rapidly depletes itself ( thoughI did, on a side note, have to buy Bill Buford’s new book, Heat, about his experience in Mario Batali’s Babbo kitchen and beyond – I am seeing him talk this week; there was no choice…) we made our way to The Magnolia Bakery. Cupcakes from there have been first on our to-do list for quite some time. Perhaps that’s because of a certain TV show – but perhaps because, really, what can be happier than a fluffy, sprinkled little tower of cake?

We brought them to Washington Square Park and ate as we watched as a phalanx of tiny dogs chased each other around their owners’ legs in the nearby dog park. The vanilla cupcake was soft and simultaneously dry. But combined with the thick creaminess of the light-purple butter frosting it was textural heaven. The chocolate one was too moist for me – too liquid in its overwhelming chocolaty-ness. Strange, I know. Perhaps it was a result of the stifling heat wave that has been surrounding us, melting everything in its path. But Becca didn’t have the same problem with the chocolate, so who knows. In conclusion, cupcakes are a relaxing way to spend an afternoon. They certainly made the traipse to my office, soon after, much more bearable.

This week-long festival of eating with Becca was a fitting way to celebrate my partial return to smell and the full revival of culinary-love. The words mmmmm and delicious were probably the most commonly used between the two of us. Well, perhaps a garbled oh-my-god-I’m-so-full and the mumbled I-think-I’m-in-a-food-coma could also be thrown in the mix. It was also the first time I ate while seriously attempting to use all my senses but smell, in an intellectual manner and far away from sadness or loss. It was a week reinforcing the fact that Becca is a wonderful partner in taste and friendship alike. And a week that has provided fodder for a good deal of blog writing.

a pizza experience

Late last October my Mom and her fiancé, Charley, took me out to dinner. We went to Caffé Umbra, a fun little restaurant in the South End of Boston. It was not even two months after being hit by the car; I was dependent on crutches and a bulky knee brace and only just lucid enough, post-skull-fracture, to comprehend the significance of my injuries.

I remember feeling extremely nervous. My heart fluttered as we drove together to the restaurant. It was the first time I had done something “normal” – the first time I had ventured out into a public, social situation while injured. I was afraid that people would stare at me; I was terrified of attention. I was scared that being in a restaurant would make me sad, truly hammering in the consequences of my loss of smell. I was afraid of entering the familiar culinary environment and suddenly seeing how quantifiable the post-accident changes truly were.

Charley let my mom and me out on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant before he parked. One glance at the small, dimly lit bustle of the dining room made my stomach sink in apprehension. The tables were close together; walking with crutches would be difficult. There were lots of young professionals, fancied up in suits and dresses and sipping drinks at the bar, independent and healthy. Though shy in high school and perhaps (quite) awkward in junior high, I have not had any problems with confidence or social comfort in a long while. But hobbling through the dining room that night, my mom’s hand constantly hovering at my back, the hostess having just helped me climb out of my jacket while I balanced precariously on one leg, I could feel my self-conscious teenage angst creeping steadily out of my ears. No one really looked at me. Even if they had been, there was truly nothing to be embarrassed about. Being young and on crutches is a common occurrence. My cheeks were burning none the less.

But then we sat, my crutches nestled inconspicuously in a nearby corner. My mom and I faced Charley, our backs to the wall, with a full view of the crowded restaurant. The air was peppered with laughter, low tones of deep conversation, loud greetings and the whispered clink of forks and knives. Pomegranate martinis were placed in front of my mom and me, bright purple. I began to feel more comfortable. Charley, would of course never drink something so girlishly colorful, and his glass of Chianti tapped our sweet drinks as we smiled, cheers, happy that we could finally all be out of the house together.

I don’t remember what we ate. I can only recall the vague taste of martini -- like sugar water with a tang, any sort of nuance lost in those early stages of my olfactory regrowth. But the food itself wasn’t the important part. As we sat and talked, eating and drinking our way through a few hours of the evening, my awkward self-consciousness melted away. Perhaps because of the strength of thesaid martinis, yes. But also because, after those few initially awkward moments, I was finally able to look beyond my fear of injury and change. And I remembered that I love all things culinary for a reason -- a reason beyond the subtleties of flavor. Beyond qualifications of the chef and quality of ingredients. Food brings people together – the obvious happiness of those in the restaurant, patrons leaning cheerfully over their plates, sharing bites, laughing into delicate glasses of wine. People dressed nicely, together, bonding over the shared experience of a meal. I had fun for the first time in months that night. My mouth muscles, the ones used for smiling, reasserted themselves back into my physical repertoire.

Recently I’ve been sad about my less-than-full ability to taste. I’m at a plateau, recovery-wise. Completely healed, it is only the lack of smell that lingers in this tumultuous year of change. I’ve been struggling with what I want to be doing with myself and my writing. I’m in a rather constant state of confusion. But I’ve realized that the confusion may not dissipate for a while. And in coming to terms with that, I am now more fully aware of the other things, many other things, that there are to concentrate on. I’ve been happily reminding myself, now that I’m feeling more settled in my new home, why I love the culinary. Taste was a part of my kitchen-love, of course. But certainly not the only part. It’s a matter of exploration and fun. The way food brings us together and inspires universal pleasure.

For example, one night this week my friend Colin and I took a romp from our Park Slope stomping grounds deeper into the realm of Brooklyn. We were on a quest for pizza. The best pizza. Di Fara’s Pizza. And fresh off the Avenue J stop off the Q train, I found myself turning in circles searching for some visual confirmation of the well-lauded pizzeria. Perhaps I expected some kind of spotlight, bright neon sign – fireworks? Singing elves? Something to loudly advertise the amount of wonderful hype I’ve been hearing about this little nook-ish restaurant. I saw only a calm, quiet neighborhood; there was nothing out of the ordinary. I was ready to pull out all my pizza-radar equipment (though, in reality what that involves I have no idea – maybe some kind of magic wand slash scuba diving mask) – when I noticed Colin staring at me, eyebrows raised.

“It’s right here, Molly.”

“Oh. Right.” I looked up, right in front of us, and saw the simple faded sign. Di Fara’s Pizza.

Di Fara’s is contained in a small, bright little room – a tall counter separates the few tables from the oven area. Domenico DeMarco, a slight, older man with gray hair and a green plaid button-down shirt, lorded unassumingly over the pizza dough and the ovens. He wore an apron and exuded an aura of calm. His slow movements were deliberate, delicate and perfectly executed. A light rhythm of guitar chimed in the background, twinkling of old school Italian. The walls were covered with articles about his pizza.

Colin and I watched Mr. DeMarco work (after ordering our cheese pie) as we sat at a small corner table. One pizza at a time; there is nothing fast involved in this food. It deliciously slow. Colin and I had stopped by a neighboring convenience store and had crisp, cold beers to entertain us as we waited. Still in their paper bags, we drank them with straws (Yes the straws were a strange twist, I know. But somehow that straw turned it into the perfect pizza-beer. More perfect than a normal pizza-beer. Don’t ask questions, just believe me.)


Our pizza came to us, an hour later, piping hot, thin crusted with twinges of burnt crispiness on the edges. Bubbling melted mozzarella di bufala over the thick red sauce (homemade multiple times daily, I hear). We watched – Colin practically clapping his hands, seal-like, in pizza-glee – as Mr. DeMarco drizzled olive oil and carefully snipped the leaves off a fresh bunch of basil over the pie, finishing it off with a smattering of hand-ground Grana Padano cheese to sprinkle over. We ate until it felt like death was knocking at the door – the pizza slices fairly melted down my throat. The Di Fara pain is a good one though. As pleasant as an over-eating pain could possibly be.

It’s true that I can’t taste every aspect of this pizza (or any food) fully and completely without smell. But that isn’t the draw of this experience, even. It is the feeling of a lovingly made pizza practically dancing in your mouth, soft and crunchy, salty and sweet. It is the olive oil dribbling down the corner of your mouth (“Now that’s cute, Molly,” said Colin, “beer with a straw and oil dripping down your chin. Classy.”) It’s the adventure of a new neighborhood, new food and new friends.

We slunched ourselves, full to the brim, to the subway for our ride back home. [‘Slunched’ isn’t a word, I know; but I do feel it accurately portrays our state of being at that moment. You can’t just ‘slump’ if you are that full.] Colin was cold, an unusual occurrence for him, and I made the astute observation that all the blood generally keeping him warm was in his belly, working on the pizza. I suppose that if instead of on the subway on a warm spring night we were somewhere out in the unprotected open wilderness in the middle of winter for a long time, this pizza-induced-cold might have been dangerous. But what I really think is that the human body does have its priorities straight. If I had to choose between basic body function (such as temperature control) and an evening of Di Fara’s pizza – I would probably choose pizza. That’s why they invented the jacket.

another beginning

It has been eight months since I lost my sense of smell.

There are certainly moments when I am positive it will never come back. My olfactory neurons seem to aggressively advertise their stagnant growth with silence.

I can clearly imagine myself at eighty-five, stooped and wrinkled, hair white as snow, baking cookies with my young granddaughter. Right before we take them out of the oven - golden brown, glistening pools of melted chocolate – I’ll lean towards the small girl and say in my creaky old voice, “When I was a little girl, about your age, the smell of baking cookies was my favorite. It always reminded me of Christmas; it smelled like school vacation. I can only imagine it now.” I will have a far-off, nostalgic gleam in my eye. And the little girl will just smile at me, confused, her batty old grandmother.

The fact that I actually do imagine myself (with vivid dexterity) as a gray-haired grandmother is slightly disturbing. So is my apparent penchant for wild exaggeration. Because the truth of the matter, when I take a small step back and view my sense of smell with a hint of reality, is that things are getting better. Slowly, almost so sluggishly it is impossible to tell if I am hallucinating.

I got a whiff of Spring the other day. I walked outside of my apartment building and most decidedly, concretely, could smell Spring. I couldn’t put my finger on any of the scent-details that were once so familiar - the freshly cut grass, perfumed budding flowers, a sweet warmth in the breeze – but I knew they were there, hiding under the inexperience of my regenerating olfactory neurons. The strength and depth of smell is not there; it was a simple baseline of Spring. But it was something, something concrete.

Beyond the distinctively sharp, recognizable scents I have had back for a while (chocolate, cinnamon, citrus, laundry, herbs, wine), I am now gaining a general sense of “scent.” Unknown and indescribable. But, I think, infinitely more hopeful. Even lacking the subtleties and nuance that give scent a name – there are smells, constantly. I find myself walking into a room and with a slam, my nose registers something. Something indefinable and weak. But it is something. I will say, confused, “What does it smell like in here?” And whomever I am with often looks equally confused, sniffing, and says ‘I don’t know… nothing much.”

I had almost forgotten that there is scent everywhere. It is easy to forget the universality and continuance of smell when you have it. The subtleties are so common they are literally unnoticeable. Every room, everywhere, has an individual smell. Temperature, too; warm has a smell, as well as cold and wet. Their baseline scents are different than their physical feeling. And the difficult thing for me at the moment is that I don’t have the words to describe them. They are registering in my nose with such a weak hum that it is more of a feeling, an idea, than a smell. But at the same time, I know that it is the beginning step to a full scent palate.

The only way I can describe these new delicate smell-ideas is to say that they make me feel alive. It is surprising how quickly I forgot that these universal scents ever existed, as I myself have existed in an odorless world. But the memory, however feeble the actual smells coming back, gives me the momentum to step out of black and white and into a world of color. Or at least sepia toned. Small steps, moving in the right direction. There are hints of a newfound vibrancy lurking everywhere.

***

On another note, it has been one year today since I began writing My Madeleine. The past year has been the most difficult and, simultaneously (the realization has been slowly dawning on me, though, I suppose that is another story in itself) the most beautiful of my life. I am very happy to have documented a great deal of the change here; the process of writing through it all has helped me in an infinite number of ways. So thank you, all, for reading.

a brief return to boston

On Thursday morning I lugged my huge suitcase down the two flights of stairs from my apartment to the sidewalk. With each lopsided step the suitcase bounced against my leg; it was a fight to keep from falling face first down the stairs. Coupled with the gigantic backpack I had somehow managed to stuff with every possible item under the sun (did I really need 6 different books for my four days in Boston?) my balance was widely off-kilter. Once on the ground I rolled the case behind me as I walked to the subway, leading like a tugboat of sorts, silently berating myself for agreeing to deliver this monstrous suitcase to my mother in Boston. She is going to London; she likes to pack a lot. By the time I awkwardly bounced myself down onto the F train, up the stairs at East Broadway, and down the few blocks of Canal Street to the friendly “Fung Wah Bus Station,” I was covered in sweat. After hectically throwing my money ($15.75; best deal ever) in the tiny glass window to get my ticket stub (handwritten on a scrap of paper) I lofted my suitcase (with a combination of arm raising, back bending and a few aggressive karate kicks) onto the luggage platform of the bus and collapsed into my seat, hot, sweaty and tired. I promptly fell asleep, wading through hazy dreams of subway trains somehow supplanted into the office of the magazine I am currently working for alongside some spinning cherry trees in full blossom, an old friend from elementary school and a series of shooting firecrackers launched from a rooftop. Strange dreams; I’ll blame it on the loads of allergy medication I need to take this time of year in order not to sneeze my nose off. I woke up when we reached South Station in Boston somewhat disoriented, but happy to be back, however briefly, in such a familiar land.

My mom and I walked to a local French bistro that night and had a glass of wine (or two) together while we ate fresh pea soup, vibrantly green with a pool of white crème fraiche in its center, grilled calamari and spicy chorizo. We talked about a lot of things: my new life in New York, hers continuing in Boston, future trips, plans, the excitement of my little (well not so little; 6’3 varsity lacrosse playing) brother spending the summer in NYC as well. And simply the strangeness of finding myself back in Boston, even if for only a few days, after my first two months in New York. I am beginning to feel comfortable in Brooklyn – like I live there and it may possibly one day be called ‘home’. In Boston it seems as if in every corner there lurks a ghost of my former, injured self. Driving to the grocery store there is a girl on crutches sitting in the passenger seat next to me; she winces whenever we go over a bump. Riding the T I brush hands with my shrunken self, the one wearing a large black knee brace, as we simultaneously grab the handrail. The kitchen reverberates with the sound of my cane and when I walk into my bedroom I leave behind a woman who is not able to climb the stairs to reach it. It’s amazing what only two months away can do to change your mindset. New York is good for me. It is wonderful, however, to be back at home for a weekend and see my family.

And Friday night I again took the helm of the kitchen and cooked dinner for my mom and her boyfriend Charley. I think they miss having an enthusiastic personal chef around the house; I certainly miss their standing mixer and Cuisinart (maybe them, too). I made a simple meal from the Balthazar Cookbook: mustard glazed salmon and earthy lentils, roasted asparagus with parmesan and a toasted vanilla pound cake with strawberries. It was very spring, fitting well alongside the yellow daffodils winking through the kitchen window. And comforting – to cook, to eat, to be back home, and to know how far I’ve come.

Mustard-Crusted Salmon
Adapted from the Balthazar Cookbook

6 salmon fillets
1 ½ tsp salt
½ tsp black pepper
¼ cup Dijon mustard
6 tsp dry bread crumbs
2 tbs vegetable oil

-preheat oven to 500
-season salmon with salt and pepper. On top, spread 2 tsp of mustard and a sprinkling of bread crumbs. Press the crumbs into the mustard with your fingers.
-heat oil in large sauté pan, when it begins to smoke, add the salmon, mustard side down and lower the flame to medium. Sear for 2 minutes, until there is a crust. Flip for one minute and then transfer the pan into the oven to finish cooking for 3 minutes.
-Plate on top of the lentils

Lentils:
Adapted from the Balthazar Cookbook

1 cup green lentils
2 slices diced bacon
4 sprigs thyme
½ medium onion, diced
1 minced garlic clove
1 tsp salt
2 tbs unsalted butter
1 medium carrot, diced
1 celery stalk, diced
¼ tsp white pepper.

-rinse the lentils in cold water and drain. Put them in a sauce pan with 4 cups of water and bring to a boil. Simmer for 20 minutes.
-meanwhile in another saucepan, sauté the bacon and thyme for two minutes. Add the garlic, onion and salt and sauté 5 minutes. Add butter, carrot, celery, white pepper and one cup of water and boil five minutes.
-drain lentils and then put them back in their pot. Add the vegetable mixture and simmer 10 minutes. Serve under the salmon.

Roasted Asparagus with Parmesan:

Asparagus
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
Handful of parmesan cheese

-preheat oven to 500.
-toss asparagus with olive oil, salt and pepper.
-roast 7 – 10 minutes, until fork tender.
-throw the parmesan on top, while hot, and serve.